“Don’t wait too long, Colonel. Bill and Salome are a popular act,” Ironside said.

  “Indeed,” Shamus said, the tone of his voice indicating that the discussion was closed.

  The parlor door opened and the butler stepped inside. “Begging your pardon, but there’s a gentleman in the foyer who wishes to speak to Mr. Jacob. He says his name is Dr. John Henry Holliday.”

  Shawn looked at his brother. “Jake, is that the one and only Doc Holliday?”

  “Judging by the sinking feeling I’ve got in my belly, it can be no other,” Jacob said.

  “Hadn’t you better go talk to him, Jacob?” Shamus said. “And remember, we offer the hospitality of Dromore to any honest traveler.”

  Jacob rose to his feet. “Doc is a traveler all right, but no one ever called him honest.” He headed to the foyer.

  Wearing a long black coat with a velvet collar and a plug hat, Doc Holliday stood in the drafty foyer, a carpetbag at his feet. Thin and frail, the gray shadows of death in his face, he looked like a walking cadaver.

  “How are you, Doc?” Jacob said. He did not extend his hand.

  “I need your help, Jake,” Doc said, his voice a faint whisper. “I’m in big trouble.”

  At that moment, Jacob O’Brien knew so was he.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCITING PREVIEW

  Welcome to the peaceful little town of Doubtful, Wyoming, which has more than its fair share of kill-crazy gunslicks, back-shooters, and flat-out dirty desperadoes. It also has a sheriff named Cotton Pickens, who tries his best to keep law and order without getting his head blown off before breakfast.

  DOUBTFUL’S GOT A NEW DEPUTY . . . FOR THE MOMENT

  Cotton Pickens got where he is by virtue of a quick draw and slow wit. He knows the difference between lawbreakers you have to lock up . . . and the kind you might as well just let go. Deputy Rusty Irons, though, ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed. Someone kidnapped his mail-order brides. They were probably doing him a favor, but a deputy in love is blind.

  As for the various carny barkers, medicine show con artists, and revival-meeting fly-by-nighters who pass through Doubtful, Cotton just tries to keep the peace and keep the traveling hucksters moving on.

  But in one terrible moment, it all goes straight to hell as the town explodes in a frenzy of killing and bloodshed. That’s when a lawman like Cotton earns his pay, saves his soul, or loses his life by looking evil straight in the eye. Of course, there’s also the matter of keeping his new deputy alive and in one piece.

  SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL DEPUTY

  A Cotton Pickens Western

  by William W. Johnstone

  with J. A. Johnstone

  Coming in March 2013

  wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  Chapter One

  My deputy, Rusty Irons, was as itchy as a man ever gets. We were at the Laramie and Overland stage station waiting for the maroon enameled Concord stage to roll in. He couldn’t come up with proper bouquets, not in the barely settled cow town of Doubtful, Wyoming, but he managed some daisies and sagebrush he’d collected out on the range.

  Rusty was waiting for his mail order brides. That’s right, Siamese twins from the Ukraine, joined at the hip. He’d ordered just one, but they sent him the pair. He’d gotten the hundred-fifty-dollar reward offered for Huckster Bob, wanted dead or alive. Rusty got him alive, collected his reward, and applied the money to getting himself a wife.

  So there we were, waiting for the stage to roll in. It was an hour late, maybe more.

  Well, my ma always said there’s nothing worse than a sweating bridegroom, and Rusty filled the bill. He had sweat running down his sides. His armpits had turned into gushers.

  “Well . . . you get to be best man,” Rusty sputtered.

  “If I don’t arrest you first for bigamy,” I countered.

  “I looked it up; there’s no law in Wyoming Territory against it.”

  “Well, I’ll arrest you for something or other,” I said. “You found a preacher who’ll tie the knot?”

  “No, but I’m going to argue that all he has to do is marry me to one of ’em.”

  “What’ll you do with the other?”

  “I can’t auction her off, so she gets to be the spectator.”

  “They speak English?”

  “Not a word. They’re from Lvov, Ukraine.”

  “Well, that’s a good start. You won’t get into arguments.” I pointed out. “My ma always said the best part of her marriage was when my pa was snoring.”

  Rusty grinned. “You’re the result.”

  I wasn’t sure how to take that, but thought I’d let it pass without a fistfight. His armpits were leaking worse than ever and I didn’t want his sweat all over my sheriff suit and pants.

  “You figure they’re joined facing the same way?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t marry them if one was facing backwards. Here.” He pulled out a tintype.

  The image of two beautiful blondes leaped out at me. It looked like they were side by side, except they had a single dark skirt.

  Rusty pointed to one of the women. “This one here’s Natasha, and the other is Anna.”

  “You know which one you’ll hitch up with?”

  “We’ll toss a coin. Or maybe they’ve got it worked out.”

  “What if one wants you and the other doesn’t? Or you want one and not the other?”

  Rusty, he just grinned. “Life sure is interesting.”

  Word had gotten out, and a small crowd had collected at the wooden stage office on Main Street. Some of the women squinted at Rusty as if he was a criminal, which maybe he was. But mostly they were wondering what sort of twisted beast would want to marry Siamese twins. Fifty of the good citizens of Doubtful stood in clumps, whispering and pointing at Rusty as if he belonged in the bottom layer of hell.

  Rusty, he just smiled. “I’m glad you got me that raise.”

  “You’ll need it,” I replied.

  I’d gone to the Puma County supervisors and talked them into raising Rusty’s wage by five dollars, because of his impending wedlock and his faithful service as my best and most useful deputy. That put him up just two dollars below my forty-seven a month sheriff salary, but I didn’t mind.

  I saw Delphinium Sanders, the banker’s wife, glaring as hard as she could manage at both of us. And George Waller, the mayor, was studying us as if we belonged in a zoo—which maybe we did. I sure didn’t know how things would play out, or who’d marry whom, but it made a late spring day real entertaining in the cow town of Doubtful.

  Hanging Judge Earwig was there too, and thought maybe he’d do the marrying if no one else would. Judge Earwig was broadminded, and didn’t mind it if people thought ill of him. He might even marry both the twins to Rusty, seeing as how there wasn’t any law against it. That’d come later, when the next legislature got moralistic. Or maybe Rusty could take his gals to Utah and find a Mormon cleric to fix him up, but I didn’t put much stock in it. Utah had outlawed that sort of entertainment.

  That stagecoach sure was late. Dry road, too. The dry spring meant no potholes or mud puddles. The waiting was hard on Rusty.

  “Hey, Rusty, you got a two-holer, or are they gonna take turns?” some brat yelled.

  I went after the freckled punk, got an ear and twisted it. “Cut that out or I’ll throw you down a hole and you’ll stink for a week.”

  “Aw, sheriff, this is the best thing to hit Doubtful in a long time.”

  “You’re Willie Dickens, and your ma didn’t raise you right. I let go of your ear, you promise to respect people?”

  “Anything you say.” Willie yanked loose, smirking.

  I let him go. The whole thing was turning into an ordeal for my deputy sheriff, instead of a moment of joy. It wasn’t hard to tell what all them good folks of Doubtful were thinking. The marriage would have a threesome in the bedroom.

  And still no coach.

  Then, about the time I was ready to head back to the sheriff office and look over the mail, we spotted the coach rounding the hill south of Doubtful. It was coming along at a smart clip, maybe faster than usual because them drays looked pretty lathered.

  “Well, Rusty, here it comes,” I said.

  Jonas Quill, the jehu, pulled back the lines slightly, and the sweated horses gladly quit on him, while the coach rocked gently. He yelled down at me. “We got held up, man.”

  “Held up?”

  “Four armed men, masked.”

  By then, the maroon door of the coach had swung open. Six passengers emerged; four rumpled males, mostly whiskey drummers, and two frightened women in bonnets, both gray-haired.

  No Ukrainian Siamese identical female twins.

  Rusty seemed to leak gas.

  “Clear away from here,” I yelled at the mob. “We got trouble.”

  “Where are they?” Rusty asked.

  “Don’t know, but we got business. Sheriff business.” I looked at the six who had just gotten off the stagecoach. “You passengers, stick close here. I’ll want statements from all of you.”

  One woman looked annoyed and started off.

  “You, too, Mrs. Throckmorton.”

  “I surrender to my fate,” she said, and kept on going.

  Rusty looked shell-shocked, so it was up to me. “Quill, tell me. What happened and what got took?”

  “Nothing got took. Just the twins.”

  “My mind isn’t quite biting this cookie, Quill.”

  “Three masked men on saddle horses, another in a chariot.”

  “A what?”

  “A two-wheel chariot hung on two trotters. Man driving it was masked, too.”

  “A chariot like them gladiators used?”

  “A two-wheel stand-up cart, with a lot of gold gilt and enameled red on it. They stop my coach, one has a scattergun aimed at me. They open the door, point it at the twins, and say “ladies get out,” but the twins, they don’t speak a word of English, so the masked men prod the ladies out with their revolvers. That takes some doing, four legs, one skirt, but they get the Siamese twins out, get them into the chariot, and the man with the whip smacks the butts of those trotters and away they go, the three of them standing in that chariot.”

  “That’s it?”

  “The others want the twins’ luggage, and they load it on a packhorse.”

  “And you didn’t fight it?”

  “They made us drop our weapons,” one of the drummers said.

  “What else did they take? The mail? Anything in the lockbox?”

  “Nope,” said Quill. “The foreign women and their bags, is all.”

  “Did they give any reasons?”

  “They said not to shoot ’cause we’d hit the women, and that was true. They headed due west, over some off-road route.”

  “Good, we’ll have some tracks to follow,” I said.

  “Them were my brides,” Rusty complained.

  “Real purty, they were. But sure hobbled up.” Quill frowned. “I can see the direction your steamy little brain’s taking, Irons.”

  It was getting a little out of hand.

  “Rusty, you interview the male passengers, and I’ll interview these women. Meanwhile, you people, clear out of here.” I waved my arms to shoo them out.

  But no one moved. Half the town, it seemed, had flooded in.

  Rusty and I got what we could from the passengers. Nothing was taken except the Ukrainians. No one was forced to empty pockets. No valuables ended up in bandit pockets. The kidnappers were young, well masked, rode easily, wore wide-brimmed hats and jeans and dirty boots. They were polite with no apparent accents and offered no reasons. Treated courteously by the bandits, the Ukrainian twins went peaceably, not understanding a bit. They were even smiling.

  “Were they hostages? Will they be returned for a reward?” Rusty asked the drummers.

  “Nope, no sign of it,” said one in a black bowler.

  “Who’d want female Siamese twins?” Rusty asked.

  “They were real lookers,” another salesman ventured.

  Rusty whipped out his tintype. “These the ones?”

  They studied the black and white a while. “Not sure, but seems so,” one said.

  “Did these women seem in distress?”

  “Nope, they thought it was all pretty merry.”

  The passengers had been detained long enough, so me and Rusty cut them loose, cut the jehu loose, and headed for Turk’s Livery Barn. We had some hard riding in front of us.

  Chapter Two

  Rusty, he wanted a posse. He was plumb irate. Them was his brides got stolen, and he was rooting around, looking for ways to hang the wife-rustlers at the nearest cottonwood tree.

  “Hey, cool off,” I said. “Go saddle up and take some fixings. I’ll get Critter, and we’ll get this deal shut down in no time.”

  “Who’ll run the office?’

  “I’ll send Burtell,” I said, referring to a part-time deputy.

  “I want a posse. That was Anna and Natasha got took. I want plenty of armed men.”

  “This’ll be the easiest kidnapping we ever solved. Where can they hide? We got some dudes in a red and gold chariot, kidnapping beautiful Siamese twins in one skirt, and they speak Ukraine, whatever the tongue is. We got ’em cold, Rusty.”

  He didn’t want to believe it, and I didn’t blame him. He got robbed out of two real pretty gals, and a lot of real fine nights once he got hitched to one or the other . . . or both.

  But my ma, she used to say twins were double the trouble. She’d settle for twin cocker spaniels, but not any pair that would put her out some. In truth, if we got them joined-up twins back, I wasn’t sure Rusty could handle the deal.

  He turned toward the office where he’d left his horse and I turned toward Turk’s Livery Barn, fixing to saddle up Critter the Second. The first got his throat slit, and I looked hard before I found the Second, who was meaner than the first, so it worked out all right. I don’t know what I’d do with a gentle horse. Horses are like women. If they don’t buck when you’re riding them, they’re no good.

  Critter was out in the yard, which wasn’t good. He kicked down any stall he got put into, so Turk often put him outside. I got the bridle and went after him, and sure enough, he headed for a corner in the fence and waited for me, his rear hoofs itchy to land on me. I tried moving along one rail and he switched that way, so I tried the other rail, and he switched that way.

  “Critter, dammit, we’re going to look for some women. Or one woman. I don’t have it straight. So shape up,” I yelled.

  He turned and eyed me, and settled down. I bridled, and brushed, and saddled him without trouble. Critter was a philosopher.

  “Dog food,” called Rusty as he led his horse toward the barn. “He needs to be turned into dog food.”

  “I won’t argue with it,” I called back.

  “Shouldn’t we have a buggy or a cart?” Rusty asked. He was thinking about how to transport the Ukrainian ladies. You can’t expect Siamese twins to climb up on a horse, but maybe a pair of horses would work if they crowded close.

  He was armed to the teeth, with a saddle gun and a pair of mean-looking Peacemakers hanging from his skinny hips. He was gonna get his women back, even if he burned some powder. “You got any idea why them gals got took?”

  “It sure is interesting,” I replied.

  Turk spotted us. “You going after them stage robbers?”

  Rusty nodded. “That’s my women they took.”

  “Double the feedbags,” Turk pointed out. “You sure got odd tastes.”

  That was my private opinion, but I wasn’t voicing it. Rusty was the best deputy I had, and I didn’t want to rile him up.

  Word spread through town like melted butter, and they were all watching as we rode out. Mostly watching Rusty, not me. The women stood along Main Street with pursed lips, and I could read their every thought.

  Soon we were trotting down the Laramie Road, heading for the ambush spot, so I could see what was to be seen, and we could see what the chariot wheels did to the turf. It should be easy enough to follow that cart, and with a little luck I’d have the bandits in manacles and heading for my lockup in a day or two.

  Rusty, he sure was silent.

  “What are you thinking, Rusty?”

  “Maybe I won’t marry after all. They’ll be plumb ruined. I was marrying double virgins, and now look at it. It’s a mess.”

  “You sure got big appetites, Rusty. Double everything—double marriage, double honeymoon, double household, double mouths to feed.”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” he said, a little smirky. Somehow he was seeing that he was double the rest of us. He looked over at me. “What if they both expect babies at the same time, eh?”

  I didn’t push it. Life sure was going to be interesting.

  Critter loved to get out, and he was pretty near popping along. Rusty’s nag had to trot now and then to catch up. We were riding through empty country, nothing but hills and sagebrush, and not worth anything except to a coyote. But that was Wyoming for you. Ninety percent worthless, ten percent pretty fine.

  It took us about three hours to reach the ambush place, well chosen to hide the ambushers behind a curve in the road. The jehu had given me a pretty good idea of it. There were signs around there, all right—some iron tire tracks, some hoofprints, some handkerchiefs, and plenty of boot-heel dimples in the dun clay.

  And sure enough, the iron-tire tracks led straight west, off the road and over open prairie, so we followed them.

  “We’ll nail ’em, Rusty. How can we lose? Look at them tracks, smooth and hard.”

  But the tracks gradually turned and finally came entirely around and headed for the Laramie Road, maybe a mile south of where the ambush happened. And there they disappeared. Those clean iron-tire tracks vanished. We messed around there a while, widening out, looking for the tracks, but it was as if that chariot had taken off from the earth and rolled on up into heaven.